Monday, September 26, 2011

Halloween is Coming, Panic!

"Pink P, what do you want to be for Halloween?"
"A pink princess ballerina."
"Are you sure you don't want to be a monkey or a dragon, or maybe a doctor or a professor?" I ask, hoping that a) she will agree to make use of one of the costumes we already have, and b) choose to be something a little more self-sufficient.
"Ballerina. Princess."
(Sigh).

Sky was a frog, a samurai, a dragon, a doctor, a SWAT team member. In fact, we avoided being a superhero of any kind until last year when I found a Bumble Bee costume on sale. Last year, I have to admit, Pink P was a princess. That costume was on sale, too. Yes, all of my parenting ideals swiftly crumble at the sight of a sale. But that's beside the point. This year, my resolve is in tact, and I'm desperate to have Pink P dress like something a little more respectable than a pink princess ballerina. The problem is, I don't know how to pull it off.

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It has never been easy to costume Pink P. Her first Halloween, we were in Tokyo. Even by American standards, Pink P was big for her age, so she was downright monstrous in Japan. I looked everywhere for a cute costume for her. Baby costumes are adorable, after all, so I looked for something, anything like what you see in the Pottery Barn Kids catalog. Maybe she could go as a lady bug, or a bumble bee, or a banana, or peas in a pod. Or maybe she could be a baby lion or a puppy dog. I looked, and looked, and looked. In the end, I swear, all I could find that fit was a Mike Wazowski costume in Japanese 3T size.

+++++++++++++++++

That year, the only trick-or-treating opportunities were in the ex-pat communities of Minato-ku. So, we dressed the kids up and took the train across town. Baby Mike Wazowski, Dr. Sky, Ren and I boarded the train in Ikebukuro and settled in for our 20 minute ride. Because Pink P traveled by stroller, the full effect of her costume was lost on the casual observer. But people stared at Sky. Not just the occasional second glance or lone starer to which we'd become accustomed after several months in Japan, but a train-full of downright staring. "Wow," I thought, "they must really dig the kids' costumes. I did a great job." (I'm never one to miss a chance at self-congratulations, particularly when the task required even the slightest bit of creativity.)

As we got closer to Minato-ku, the staring got less and less. I didn't piece things together until the ride back, though. This time the phenomenon occurred in reverse. When we got on the train, no one gave us the time of day, but by the time we were two or three stops from our destination, everyone was looking at Sky. Finally, an older woman leaned over to me and said, "Did you know your son looks an awful lot like a doctor?"